Ruth

The early morning sun
flushes on the walls
turns the sandstone
pink and warms
the windows
of empty rooms.

The blue sky, silent, fragile
high, high, with equanimity
is silent looking down
at all our numbers
rushing, groaning, looking down
at their own feet

as if they would
meet the ground early -
defeated people
without eyes and ears
to hear silence, see
the stars, adore a sunrise.
Our world roars

its anguish up to heaven
and we unleavened bread
in our stead
sweetmeats we cannot stomach
as we bore this place
tunnel, mine and slice
extracting juice

from all our gifts
till they are dry
and yield no more
our mouths sore
brains parched
hands idle for a life

we have ourselves denied
our kind.  God looks on
and shakes his head in ruth
at the padded cells
the gilded walls we have
fashioned by our hands

and as the last cage opens
and a single primate
bleary-eyed, in pain
and scarred, lurches
out, the last tree
reels and falls

a man-made baby
blinks in the morning sun
in an empty room
the silent blue fills
his eyes but no-one
hears his cry.

His hands play idly
with the shining tools,
their points and edges
killing things that show
the cleverness of those
that made them.

The sun flushes on the walls
its golden staves
travelling the air
configuring the silence
and the loss, it touches
piles of paper
blowing in the wind.

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